Interior – Convent Chapel – Night.

The candles burn slowly in front of the altar. The chapel is empty, dimly lit. Outside, a storm echoes in the distance, as if the sky were also praying.

Sister Cathleen, her face drawn from fasting and self-imposed silence, kneels in the front pew. She doesn't pray. She only breathes, trembling slightly. Her eyes are lost in nothingness.

I entered silently. My gait is almost imperceptible, as if I were floating between the pews. I see her but say nothing.

After a few seconds, I sit beside her, without touching her. (in a low voice, almost a whisper): “Sometimes... praying isn't talking to God. It's waiting for Him to look at us.”

Sister Cathleen doesn't respond. A tear falls slowly down your cheek.

I extended my hand, not decisively, but with restrained tenderness. I didn't touch Sister Cathleen. She leaves it suspended, like an offering.

Sister Cathleen, without turning around, takes that hand. She squeezes it. Not hard. Just enough to let me know she's still there. (voice breaking): “I don't know if I believe in Him… But I do know that I believe in you.”

I closed my eyes. It's a confession deeper than any vow. The silence becomes thick, almost sacred.

Slowly, I leaned in and rested my forehead against yours. There is no kiss, no words. Just a gesture of comfort, of shared presence, of nameless love.

The storm rages outside. Inside, only two souls meeting in the midst of doubt.